To The Campbell Soup Company Executives:
No, I’m not talking to you, secretary in the main office reading this. I know those big execs have got busy schedules, but goddamnit, this is important, and you need to get this to them. Say execs from Progresso sent another letter and they’re talkin’ shit again and calling Campbell’s “shitty bullshit soup for babies.” If they point out that Progresso is a subsidiary of General Mills, tell them oh yeah, you meant the General Mills execs and to stop being smartasses and read the goddamn letter. I don’t care what you have to say, just get it done.
Oh, and, clearly, you’re gonna have to remove this front page from this letter. You know, so they don’t see my conspiring? Jesus Christ, do I have to spell everything out for you? This is first day shit! How the hell did you graduate from Secretary College anyway?
To the Most Notedly Esteemed Individuals of Whom the Upper Echelons of the Soup Business are Comprised:
First of all, allow me to introduce myself. Hello, my name is George Liberty Patriotism Freedom Guns Washington (it’s a family name). First time writer, long time eater. I have quite literally loved your product since nearly the moment I was born, as my mother was a sickly woman who did far too much meth, and her doctor was not much better. As I was being delivered 3 ⅓ months premature, the doctor realized he was using the incubator to keep his hot-dogs warm, so he just filled a bathtub with about three inches of Cream of Mushroom and plunked me in. Worked like a charm, as you can tell, and it hardly caused any cognitive disabilities at lkcjutter reverberavtions apifhf;;wewqoi 11984485 THE KING COME DOWN.
Anyway, I write not merely to praise you for your life-giving elixir of animal brine. Instead, I come bearing sad news of disappointment. You see, I am a college student, which leads to peculiar financial circumstances. In particular, to combat the costs of tuition I am forced to live off of microwaveable meals and whatever algaenous feculence I can manage to suckle off the toes of homeless men.
So, imagine my joy when I discovered that you, sweet, sweet purveyors of nutrition and sustainers of being, had a product requiring only the container and a microwave to consume, apelled most blessedly, “Chunky Chili. With Beans.” Why the FUCK had I bought all these REAL bowls? Campbell’s, that meat-solution Deity, had already created a product WHICH WAS ITS OWN COMESTICATION APPARATUS?!?! And, even better: It proclaimed right there on that beautiful all-in-one, heat-and-eat container that it was Cooked with Care in the USA. I needed nothing more. I instantly filled my pants with ejaculate. I love the USA. Hell, I even live there! It’s like you knew I wouldn’t eat anything not made here, because MUH FREEDUMS.
Now, this sounds all great. But let me sidetrack here for a second. Clearly, you guys have got some serious gentlemen developing your product. You are an international food corporation: The stocks may say you’re only worth 1/10 an Apple per share, but I know that you’ve got to have enough bullion held back to make Goldfinger shit doubloons. In all likelihood, you’re nabbing engineers from NASA and Battelle left and right. These are people who probably get off on ensuring 800,000 gallons of tomato soup fall within .05% variance in viscosity. People who nuzzle their calculators to sleep and have an aneurysm when labels don’t all overlap to within ⅛ an inch of specifications.
Which brings me back to my main point, and my reason for writing: You have the finest team of soup-scientists this side of anywhere. Yeah, I’ll say it, you’re the best in the world. No, fuck Progresso. Did Andy Warhol paint fucking Progresso cans? No. So why, please, please tell me why, with an ensemble of finely tuned broth-container-designing machines, CAN YOU NOT MAKE A GODDAMN PULL-TAB LID FOR YOUR GODDAMN CHUNKY CHILI BOWLS THAT I CAN OPEN WITHOUT SPLATTERING YOUR ACIDIC MEATY-TOMATO SWILL ALL OVER THE GODDAMN FUCKING ROOM?!
I mean, honestly! Jesus H. Tittyfucking Christ (family name), how hard can it be! I want to warm my chili and then put it in my mouth, I don’t wanna have it sprayed in a fine, hyper-speed mist across my face like I’m part of some Texan cuisine bukkake. My roommate can tell if I’ve made your fucking soup when he gets home because there’s a silhouette of my body in chili spatters on the opposite wall. I’ve blinded no less than three too-curious cats with your edible Mace, and I loved Mr. Tuffy-paws, you soulless bastards.
And it’s not like this is even a particularly difficult thing to remedy, because, I mean, COME ON. I don’t have to brave torrents of foul sugar water besieging my orifices when I crack open a Coke, and that involves popping a small piece of metal at high speeds directly down into the liquid. All your’s involves is peeling it slowly back like the world’s only edible tin of sardines, except at the last moment it’s like there’s a sudden spasm in the fabric of reality, causing like 50% of the delicious soup I paid for in hobo-bones to soak every piece of clothing I own in tomato puree and “caramel color,” regardless of whether it was in the closet at the time. It says “Roadhouse” on the bowl, but I don’t recall ever being at a roadhouse where the waitresses dumped the food in my lap instead of on the plate, and I’ve been to a lot of roadhouses because for a while I was certain my real father was a trucker and I was determined to find him. Actually, I have been to a roadhouse like that once, but I think that was the idea and also the waitresses were topless, so it was really somewhat more acceptable. Potential alternative to revising the can: package boobs with the soup. I would accept this as an alternative.
Alright, I’m spent. I have nothing more for you, you soup-dealing bastards. I hope you can’t sleep at night because the thoughts of the stains are haunting you, and I hope your families prefer ramen noodles.
-George Liberty Patriotism Freedom Guns Washington, esq.